New Jersey Winter
by HifaLootin
Summary: Foreman takes five vacation days and comes back looking worse. Chase thinks he knows why. Some themes of mortality. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

**New Jersey Winter**

disclaimer: I'm not associated with House or FOX in any way. I write for fun, not profit.

Part 1

-

They said it was a record snowfall that winter. No one saw it coming. Trenton hadn't seen so much snow since the blizzard of 1996, and Princeton wasn't much better off. Temperatures dropped towards record lows. Twenty inches of snow appeared virtually overnight.

All that didn't mean much to Dr. Chase. He hadn't been in New Jersey long enough for that to matter and even found it marginally annoying that _snow_ was making the newspaper headlines every other day. As if nothing else was going on in the world.

There was, however, one scrap-sized article that Chase had clipped from the Monday paper and folded into his coat pocket. Less than 100 words probably, but he'd read them over several times, wondering when he'd become so interested in the morbid.

TRENTON WOMAN FREEZES TO DEATH, FIVE FEET FROM RESIDENCE

The article was oddly poetic—as poetic as a woman walking from her house into a snow drift, letting the false warmth of hypothermia lull her to her death. It was the old expression, defined and personified: _not enough sense to come in from the cold. _She was sixty-two.

Standing at the corner with his hands jammed into his pockets and his face half hidden in a scarf, Chase watched a street sweeper clear the road and wondered…

A day later, Foreman disappeared.

"Cuddy gave him three days of vacation," House explained.

Cameron looked out the window. "I hope he went somewhere _warm_."

Chase ignored them both and started dealing himself a game of solitaire. Since House's legal trouble with Tritter had blown over, cases had been few and far between, as if Cuddy no longer had faith in Diagnostics.

"You know you can do that on the computer now," House said, nodding towards Chase's game. "It's the 21st century, man."

"You know you're supposed to be in the Clinic now," Chase replied.

"Let's play poker," House said, taking the seat across the table.

"You just want to take all my money."

"Well, yes."

"How about 'go fish'?" Cameron suggested. "I'd play that."

"Fishing for dollars," House added.

Chase scooped up the half-dealt solitaire game and slapped the cards into House's palm. "Fine. You deal."

Cameron almost smiled, watching as the cards shuffled and bridged in House's hands. "I can't believe we're getting paid for this."

"Foreman should take vacations more often," said House. "Now ante up."

- - -

Three days passed and Foreman didn't come back.

Cameron found an old game of Trivial Pursuit in one of the lounges and brought it up to Diagnostics. It would have been a lot easier, Chase thought, if it was written sometime after the 1970s. House won (in what Chase was sure was record time) and characteristically demanded they play again. "For dollars."

"How many red stripes are there in striped toothpaste?" Cameron read.

"It does _not_ say that."

"Yes. It does."

Chase bit his lip. "Uh…two?"

"Five," Cameron said apologetically, tossing the card back into the battered box.

House clucked his tongue. "That was an _easy_ one too."

For the rest of the day Chase refused to talk to him and switched shifts with a colleague to spend the rest of the day in the ICU where no one gave a damn about striped toothpaste.

- - -

The games stopped on day four, when Cameron got a call from her mother informing her that she'd just been volunteered to plan her sister's baby shower and promptly busied herself searching the internet for "the perfect balloons," "cutest invitations" and as a last resort "suicide capsules."

"You could probably find those here," House offered.

There were a few laughs to be had at her expense, but eventually House got bored and wandered off to find Dr. Wilson, leaving Chase alone with nothing to do. He dug in his pocket for a pen to doodle with or chew on and was almost surprised when his search produced the article from Monday. It was still snowing on and off, but what was pristine white powder had turned into dirty clumps of ice, and suddenly TRENTON WOMAN FREEZES TO DEATH seemed less poetic.

He smoothed it flat and shut it in his notebook.

- - -

On the fifth day, Foreman came back.

And for a man back from five days of vacation, he looked like crap.

"Well it's about time," House said, as Foreman shuffled in and peeled off his scarf and jacket.

"I tried to call Cuddy," Foreman said, "I couldn't get through."

"Well…" House seemed to consider this. "Do my clinic hours for the month and we'll call it even."

Chase looked up from the house of cards he'd been building. That was it?

Foreman just nodded. _Something_ was wrong. He looked almost ashy. Chase had been glancing at Cameron since Foreman walked in, expecting her notice their colleague was looking rather worse for the wear. It was the kind of thing _she _was supposed to notice.

Cameron cared. Cameron made coffee and _listened_. Cameron gave hugs.

But Cameron was still occupied planning what had became known as "the damn baby shower," and her bouts of phone calls and well…whatever else she was doing were only interspersed by mutters of "babies are overrated." Chase had had to remind her on more than one occasion, that she was a _doctor_ not a cruise director, which had earned a glare from her and a smirk from House. He was rather proud of that one actually.

But when Foreman sat down, oblivious to the fact that he'd toppled the house of cards, Chase was jarred back to his original curiosity: What the hell was wrong with Foreman?

- - -

"Do you think he's all right?" Chase found himself asking House after Foreman left for a consult.

"Oh sure. He's been partying for five days straight." House wagged his eyebrows. "Probably living the high life if you know what I mean. Just needs to sleep it off. But it's _adorable_ that you're concerned like this. Shall I let him know?"

"Why wouldn't he be?" Cameron asked dully, when Chase repeated the question to her. "If you're so concerned, why don't you ask him?"

Even if her head was somewhere else, it was sound advice. Chase had no response.

- - -

Chase didn't particularly like wandering the halls and asking various orderlies if they'd seen Dr. Foreman, but luckily, he didn't have to look too hard. He found—or rather _heard_—Foreman just outside of Wilson's office, immersed in some sort of argument.

Foreman had trapped Dr. Wilson in the space between his office and the hall with one hand against the door and the other holding a file. Chase could tell it was a false show of aggression by the slump of Foreman's shoulders and the flatness in his voice. Wilson probably could too.

"And you want me to talk to her?" he was saying.

"To the family," said Foreman.

"I've got patients waiting…" Wilson moved a hand to the back of his neck.

"I just need you to tell them—"

"That she's dying? Foreman, you can do it—I've seen you do this."

Foreman worked his jaw and let his arm drop to his side. "Please," he said, like the word tasted foul.

Chase watched Wilson raise his eyebrows and felt his face doing the same. Wilson gave a small nod and reached out for the file.

"Thank you."

As Foreman turned, there was a brief flash of something…strange in his eyes when he realized Chase had been listening. Chase raised a hand in a lame little wave.

"What's up?"

"Work," said Foreman.

"It's uh…almost lunchtime," Chase pointed out, "Want to go downstairs and grab a bite?" Yeah, it wasn't the usual thing—but Foreman didn't have to look quite so suspicious.

"You look like you could use a break," Chase added.

"I don't know. I've got a lot of things to catch up on."

"Ten minutes. I'll treat."

_Now_ Foreman was clearly suspicious. "Why are you suddenly all buddy buddy with me? What are you trying to accomplish?"

"You look like shit, Foreman. I'm just trying to help."

"Yeah." Foreman knocked shoulders with Chase as he pushed past. "Right."

- - -

Chase decided to try a different angle.

Back in diagnostics, he grabbed the grey/red ball House kept on his desk and beaned Foreman in the back of the head.

"Remember that time you almost died?" Chase asked, before Foreman had a chance to lash back at him. It worked for a second.

"What the hell?" Foreman demanded. His hand moved to the back of his head although it couldn't possibly hurt. "Leave me alone, Chase. I'm serious."

Chase ignored that, banking on Foreman being professional enough to _not _start pummeling him in the glass walled office.

"Are we friends?"

Foreman's brow immediately furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"When you almost died," Chase explained, "Cameron said you changed your mind about her. Being your friend, I mean." Chase stooped to retrieve the ball and tossed it between his hands.

"You throw that at me again and you're going to regret it."

"So are we colleagues? Or friends?"

Foreman shook his head, turning back towards the table. "I think you know the answer, Chase."

Chase rolled the ball between his palms. "Well if you ever need someone to talk to—"

And like that, Foreman was back in his face. "Are you mocking me?"

"Maybe a little."

"You are a woman," said Foreman, "And I will smear you across the walls if you don't stop talking to me right now."

Strike two.

- - -

"Foreman called me a woman," Chase told Cameron later that day. She was distracted, of course, checking her messages.

"Is that unusual?" she asked idly.

"He threatened me."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Maybe you should talk to him?" Chase suggested. "Since you two aren't _just colleagues _and all that."

Cameron let out a ragged sigh and yanked her glasses from her face. "Because you _still_ think he's acting strangely? Haven't we already had this conversation?" She shook out her hair. "Chase you seriously need something better to do with your time. Foreman's _fine._"

"Fine," said Chase. "Wait, where are you going?"

Cameron snapped her cell phone closed. "If House asks tell him I had to leave early to pick up flowers. Tell him to page me if anything interesting happens."

"You're not wearing your pager," Chase pointed out.

Cameron made a pained little smile. "My expectations aren't very high. See you tomorrow."

No sooner was she out the door that her pager came alive on the table, chirping it's shrill arpeggio. Chase picked it up.

House wanted a consult in the clinic.

When he went to check, just in case, House was sitting in exam room two watching what looked like _Telemundo_ on his portable TV.

"Didn't I page Cameron?" he asked when Chase came in.

"She left early," said Chase. "You don't actually need a consult, right?"

House hitched a shoulder. "There's this spot on my back that's been bothering me. I was going to ask her to rub it. Hey, since you're already here—"

"I'm leaving early too," said Chase. "See you tomorrow."

He shut the door behind him.

- - -

When Chase saw Foreman again in the hospital parking lot, he decided to bite the bullet and try the direct approach.

"It's your mum, isn't it?" he called, more loudly than originally intended.

Foreman was clearing snow away from his tires, but he stopped, went rigid.

More quietly, Chase added, "She died."

When Foreman turned and rose up to his full height, Chase could have sworn he saw a look of panic flit across his eyes. Then there was anger—the kind of how-dare-you anger they'd see in patients asked to take a drug test after swearing they were clean.

And then there was nothing.

"Excuse me?" said Foreman.

Chase moved his hands to his pockets, suddenly aware of the cold.

"You heard me."

"Mind your own business, Chase."

"I saw the obituary. The funeral was the day before yesterday."

Foreman said nothing.

"I wanted to offer my condolences," Chase tried again. Foreman's chin had dropped and he was now staring intently at the snow streaked pavement beneath his feet. Then the silence was maybe too bleak for him, because he slapped his gloved hands together hard, then banged a fist against the roof of his car.

"What do you want, Chase?"

"I told you—"

"_Really_." Foreman's voice was sharp. "You wanted to come out here and tell me you're _sorry_—that you _feel bad_, so we can…what? Go cry together about our dead mothers? And what do you do—read the Trenton paper with your morning coffee? Why did you even have the obituary?"

"There was a piece in the Gazette"—Chase felt around his pockets but they were empty empty empty—"Something made me think…I thought…I looked it up."

"So you solved the mystery." Foreman shook his head like he couldn't believe it and gave his car another thump. "Jesus. You looked it up. If you actually gave a damn, you would have _asked_ me where I'd been. Maybe asked me what was wrong? You're only interested in this because you're so damn bored."

Maybe there was some truth in that statement, because it stung Chase in a way he hadn't braced himself for. Suddenly he didn't feel good about standing in the slushy parking lot, staring at Foreman.

"I just thought," Chase spat, with more venom than he felt, "you'd want _someone_ to notice."

Foreman's face went blank; his mouth closed. He had no response.

The winter air just hung there between them, like something left unsaid—heavy, and clouded with their breath. Chase realized now that he was more invested than he'd originally intended.

_tbc_

**a/n: **And before anyone asks, _yes_ I write Foreman/Chase slash, but _NO_ this isn't it, lol. There aren't any pairings in this thing. This is the first multi-part fic I'm attempting and I'd love to get any feedback you're willing to give. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**New Jersey Winter**

disclaimer: I'm not associated with House or FOX in any way. I write for fun, not profit.

Part 2

-

Chase's phone must have rang sometime around two in the morning, but he'd been (for once) blissfully asleep. All he had to go on was the "missed call" message with Foreman's number and timestamps that suggested Foreman had dialed, then immediately hung up.

So a little after six a.m., Chase rolled out of bed and called him back.

"I missed your call," Chase said, to Foreman's somewhat confused 'hullo?'.

"Oh that," said Foreman, "Yeah uh…it snowed eight more inches last night."

The newspaper could have told him that. "Yeah?"

"I can't get my car out," Foreman said. "Can you give me a lift to work?"

"That's what you called about? In the middle of the night?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Well, you keep weird hours."

That was fair, Chase supposed. But still…

"So can you?" Foreman asked again.

"Sorry, mate—I don't drive when it's like this."

"Really?" Foreman sounded genuinely surprised.

"Never got much practice. We don't get a lot of snow in Melbourne." Chase didn't add that he'd never mastered the art of putting chains on his tires either.

"Oh," said Foreman, "okay. I'll call a cab then. Thanks anyway."

- - -

Chase took the bus to work and was forty minutes late.

"Sorry," he said, trying to duck under House's (perhaps affected) glare.

"Hair dryer on the fritz?" House asked.

"Buses were late," said Chase, "You may not have noticed, but the weather's been a little unpredictable lately."

"It's New Jersey," House said, "It snows."

Chase gave his coat a shake before hanging it on the coat rack in the corner. Behind him, the door swung open.

"Ah," said House, "My minions have returned. Tell me you've got something good."

Cameron and Foreman looked equally exhausted, blue patient files dangling from their hands.

"Well there's a girl in Peds with a black tongue," Cameron said.

"Black-black or purple-black?"

"Purple-black."

"She vomiting?"

Cameron flipped open the file. "She was. Stomach flu."

"Symptom of yarfing up Pepto Bismal," House said. "Next."

"Patient presenting with strange rash on the upper lip," Foreman offered.

"Woman?"

"Yes?"

"Dark hair, pale skin?"

"I think so."

"Mustache?"

"Wait, what?" Cameron interrupted.

"You," House said to her, "Are fortunate enough not to have one. This woman, not so much. So she had the brilliant idea to bleach it. Or maybe to wax it. Who knows what she used. Give her some cream." House turned to Foreman. "And you…you knew that, didn't you?"

"House," Foreman said tiredly, "There's no case for you. You're going to have to go work in the clinic."

"Less than useless," House muttered, pushing past his team then heading in the entirely wrong direction for the clinic. Cameron shook her head.

"Nice of you to show up, Chase," she said, shouldering past to get to the coffee pot.

"What did I do?"

Foreman found a seat at the table. "It's been a long morning."

"House is on the warpath," Cameron said.

"Why?"

"Do we _ever_ know?"

"This is ridiculous," Foreman said, with enough fervor to pull Chase and Cameron's attention from their inane conversation. "Dealing with House is bad enough when we _have_ a patient—I'm sick of sitting around and waiting for Cuddy to let him out of the dog house!"

"Wanna play Parcheesi?" Chase offered lamely.

Foreman ignored him. "I'm not even sure I can work here anymore."

He was out the door before Chase had time to say "Parcheesi" again.

"What's gotten into him?" Cameron asked no one in particular, licking the sugar from her coffee stirrer. "Isn't House like this all the time?"

"He's…" Chase started before realizing he wasn't sure where it was going. _Upset? Distracted? Mourning?_ "He's…y'know, Foreman."

Cameron laughed lightly. "I'm going to head down to the clinic. I'll have Brenda switch my shift with House."

Chase rose to his feet. "And I'm going to, uh…" _Find Foreman._ "PICU. They were short staffed yesterday because of…the snow."

"Dying children. Wow." Cameron offered a little close mouthed smile as she held the door. "What a way to start the day."

Chase decided that next time he might need a better alibi.

Had he even set foot in PICU in the last six months?

Cameron _could have_ been watching him, so he figured he might as well swing by PICU so they could turn him away, tell him they had plenty of doctors, thanks, but please get out of the way…

But _of course_ his timing was bad, and they didn't have enough doctors and before he really knew what was happening he was running alongside a gurney calling a code and checking the pulse of an eight year old girl while nurses rushed to hook up an IV, get the monitors in place, wheel in a crash cart…

- - -

When he was no longer thinking about Foreman, Chase had the luck to run into in the cafeteria, pushing a tray through the lunch line.

"Hey," said Chase cheerily.

"Where were you all morning?"

"PICU."

"Really."

Chase ignored his tone. "There was this little girl—car crash—we were so sure we were gonna lose her, it was like we were just going through the motions…but at the last minute her heart started and she started to breathe and her mother was so hysterical by that time that when she saw the kid was okay she just jumped on me and started kissing me."

Chase smiled, awaiting a reaction—he was in a _damn_ good mood. But maybe Foreman needed a nudge.

"It was funny," Chase said, "I was only monitoring her vitals after all."

Still, Foreman seemed intent on selecting the best looking sandwich and for a second, Chase thought he hadn't heard him at all.

"Do you have any respect for life?" Foreman asked.

Chase's initial response came out like a laugh, though he hadn't intended it that way. "What?"

"You were 'going through the motions'?"

"Yeah, so?" Chase considered reaching across Foreman for the last bag of baked Lays, but thought better of it.

"Can you hear yourself? You sound worse than House. Do you even take people's lives seriously, or is this all just fun for you? It's all okay as long as you get to be the hero?"

Chase felt his mouth drop open. "It's PICU! I'm happy that no one _died_. Is there something wrong with that?"

Foreman shifted his eyes back to his lunch tray. "Nothing. Never mind."

"What the hell, Foreman?"

"I said never mind!" Foreman snapped up the chips Chase was eyeing and turned to smile at the cashier. "Hi."

"Separate or together?" she asked.

"It's together," Chase said quickly, grabbing his tray and making haste towards a table before Foreman could protest. Foreman was left at the counter, mouth and wallet both wide open, and Chase tried not to feel too bad about it.

Of course Foreman followed him—that was what he'd expected.

"Just because you read her obituary," Foreman said, clenching his jaw, "doesn't mean we're friends now; it doesn't mean I want to 'hang out.'"

Chase popped a piece of bagel into his mouth. "So…we weren't friends before then?"

Foreman snorted. "I don't need your fake sympathy, okay?"

"Who said anything about sympathy? I was hoping you'd share your chips."

"Are you _trying_ to sound like House?"

"I'm trying to annoy you."

"Jesus Christ." Foreman slammed his tray down against the table. Chase was silent. Maybe Foreman was right—maybe he was completely incapable of sympathizing like a normal person. He hadn't intended to come off as an ass initially, but talking to Foreman—they knew too well how to push each others buttons. And if they_ weren't_ friends, that was all there was.

"I'm sorry," Chase tried.

Foreman was quiet for a second. "You owe me six dollars."

"Okay."

"Are you…" Foreman lifted his sandwich to his mouth but didn't take a bite. "Are you taking a cab home, or do you have a ride."

Chase shrugged. "The bus."

Foreman dropped the sandwich. "Really? _You _take the bus?"

"Only when I don't want to drive. What? What's so funny?"

"It's just…I don't know. You're so…"

"Rich? White?" Chase bit his lip to hide a smile that he didn't understand. He should be annoyed. He should get up and leave.

Foreman chuckled. "Something like that. Didn't seem like something you'd do."

"I have a bus pass and everything. Wanna see it?"

"I had to take the city bus to school when I was a kid. Some of the people I rode with…" Foreman shook his head. "Man, I'm surprised my parents allowed it. But they were working, so it was either that or walk."

"Not an experience you're eager to relive?" Chase asked.

Foreman cocked his head, like the question confused him. "I uh…I hadn't really thought about it." It made sense to Chase—if he'd _had _to do that as a kid maybe, he'd never want to by choice. Not when he had enough money for a car or a cab. But it wasn't a stigma to him—it hadn't ever struck him as such.

It was to Foreman.

"Some guy tried to give me his phone number yesterday," Chase said, "on the bus."

Foreman nearly choked on his sandwich. "Seriously?"

"He sat down next to me and wouldn't shut up. He was a lot older than House too." Chase laughed. "That's why it was funny, right?" He watched Foreman's eyes drop back to his lunch.

"Uh…" Foreman pushed his bag of chips across the table. "So I have to go back to Trenton this weekend."

"Yeah."

"Mom had all these cousins who're camped out in a motel now and they're taking care of Dad…they're doing this dinner thing, inviting friends over, doing a photo album or something. I don't know. But I'm supposed to be there."

"Okay."

"Uh, Chase?"

"Yeah?"

"You…can have the chips. I'm not hungry."

Chase watched Foreman get up, lift his tray, and he found himself staring rather hard at Foreman's sudden attempt to avoid his eyes. But he took the chips anyway.

"Thanks," said Chase.

- - -

Two days later, they had lunch together again.

And Foreman was talking about it, about her, about the elephant in the room. And Chase was holding his breath.

"It was so stupid. The way she died. So pointless—like, if I had been there…" Foreman paused, taking a deep breath, "I should have been there. You know?"

Chase almost laughed because it was so perfect; he could say "I know" and mean it. _I felt exactly the same way_. And there were other things he could say too, word for word repetitions of reassurances offered by therapists over the years. The same old "It's not your fault. There was nothing you could have done." But it all seemed too quaint for Foreman, sitting there and staring straight ahead with that strange intensity that could only mean _I'm not going to cry about this_.

So Chase just said, "Yeah," and they finished lunch in silence.

- - -

"So I've got her ashes in a jar," Foreman said when Chase picked up the phone. "My father isn't making a decision about what to do with them so it looks like it's my responsibility like everything else."

"Oh," Chase said, not entirely sure what Foreman was getting at.

"So I was thinking I might scatter them around the rose garden, because that was one of her favorite places. I might have to call some people about that. I don't know how it works."

"Are you sure you want to scatter them?" Chase asked.

"I'm not putting them on my mantel. I don't even have a mantel."

"You could get a plot in a cemetery. Some memorials have specific places for cremated…" Saying 'remains' here seemed a little inappropriate.

Foreman made a snorting sound. "Why?"

"So your family can have somewhere to go." Leave flowers. Pray.

"I don't know."

"Foreman, I've been to my mother's grave exactly twice and I've never even seen my father's. Having them buried in a whole 'nother continent is tough enough, but having _nowhere_ to go…"

For a moment, the line was silent.

"Well, maybe," Foreman finally said.

"Do you want to grab dinner tonight?" Chase asked. "There's this pub just a few blocks down from my apartment—"

"It's okay," said Foreman, "I'm fine."

"Didn't say you weren't. Come on. It'll be good to get out of the house." And, perhaps, good to get away from the urn.

"It's okay," Foreman said again. "I have to get some stuff done before tomorrow. But Chase?"

"Yeah?"

"The dinner thing Saturday night…I told you about it, right?"

"Yes?" Chase asked, drawing out the word, having trouble believing where Foreman was probably going with this.

"Do you want to go? I mean, it's been over a week of this and Dad is…I just need a sane presence in my life."—here, Foreman laughed at himself—"I'd ask Cameron, but she has her sister's thing this weekend."

"It won't be weird?"

"No. Yes. You know, never mind—forget I asked. You probably have plans, right?"

"No, it's okay," Chase said carefully, "I can go."

"You—really? Well…well the weather's supposed to be all right this weekend. We can take my car. Okay."

After Chase hung up he dug through his bag, dresser, and kitchen drawers until he found his brown notebook, just to make sure the article was still between the pages. Then he considered pinching himself. Foreman was supposed to hate him, Foreman was supposed to find him annoying. Chase was supposed to _be_ annoying—he was supposed to be insincere, if sympathetic only for selfish, unvirtuous reasons. He'd been playing the part so long—like it was all Foreman would allow him to do.

Chase didn't flatter himself into thinking it was anything he had done to change Foreman's mind. Death changes everything—he just didn't like to think about that. And why was Chase involved anyway? Was this really even like what happened to his father, or to his mother? Or did none of that matter? Because it was something universal?

"Do you want me to bring anything?" Chase had asked.

"Don't worry about it," Foreman said, "I'm just…I'll see you tomorrow at four."

He didn't say _thanks,_ but Chase heard it anyway.

_tbc_

**a/n: **Apparently I suck at updating. My output's kinda been all over the place, but hopefully y'all remember what happened in the first part. Also, this may be four parts instead of three because this chapter covered less time than I'd intended...

I'm not sure if this is the Foreman and Chase I usually write, but I kind of like them in this story :p Feedback appreciated as always!


	3. Chapter 3

**New Jersey Winter**

disclaimer: I'm not associated with House or FOX in any way. I write for fun, not profit.

3/3!!

-

Foreman hesitated between turning off the ignition and unlocking the doors, and for a moment Chase was sure he was about to get some lengthy lecture on what he should and shouldn't do, how he should behave. But all Foreman said before pressing the release on the power locks was, "Everyone's really sad in there so you know, keep it down."

Climbing out of the Explorer, Chase realized he had no idea what that last part meant. Did Foreman expect him to go in the house and immediately burst out laughing or cracking jokes? As a kid he'd had a slight fear of laughing during funerals, laughing when he should have been crying—but after his mother's funeral, he'd learned the fear was unfounded. He'd gotten pretty good at being solemn when he had to. That was a good quality in a doctor.

Foreman gave him a sort of forced smile as he pressed the doorbell and they stood waiting with their hands in their pockets for someone to answer the door.

An older woman answered, round glasses perched atop her nose, wearing a purple dress that escaped being a muumuu by just a few stitches.

"Oh, Eric!" she said, reaching out and immediately folding Foreman into a hug. "I'm so glad you could make it. Your father will be so glad to see you."

"Hi, Auntie," Foreman said, sounding only vaguely uncomfortable. He gently unwound her arms from his shoulders. "This is my friend from work, uh…Dr. Chase."

The woman took Chase's hands in both her own. "So nice to meet you—my name is Megan, I'm Eric's aunt. Dr. Chase, huh? You look so young."

Chase wasn't sure what he should say to that other than, "Uh, nice to meet you too, Ma'am."

"Oh, don't 'ma'am' me. Call me Auntie Meg."

Chase gave her hands a final shake before pulling away. "Robert."

"Well, why don't you boys come inside? It's freez—it's warmer inside. Come on, come on."

As they filed past, Chase was hit with a wave of warm air and the smell of something sweet cooking in the kitchen. Foreman was shucking his wet sneakers in the entryway, so Chase kicked his boots off and they followed Auntie Meg into the living room.

Two women about Chase's age, maybe older, were sorting through a large box of photographs and daubing their eyes with pink tissues. Beside them was a skinny young man with large glasses and a necktie and across from him, in a well-worn easy chair, Foreman's father.

"Hi, Dad," Foreman said, giving his father a one-armed hug. The hug was returned in silence. "You remember Dr. Chase, right?"

"Yes, of course." The old man's tone didn't sound particularly baleful. "How do you do, Doctor? Thank you for coming."

Chase mimed a hat tip in the elder Foreman's direction. "Sorry for the circumstances."

"Oh, Eric, look at this!" one of the younger women called suddenly, holding up a photograph with rounded corners. It must have been old. "This is a beautiful one for the album."

Foreman picked up the picture and almost cracked a smile. "Yeah, that's Mom. That's a great one."

"Can I get you boys some coffee?" Auntie Meg asked, reminding Chase that she was still standing behind him.

"That would be great, thank you," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"Can I take your coat?"

"No, that's all right."

"I'm sorry, Doctor—" Mr. Foreman said suddenly, as if he'd just noticed Chase again. "Come have a seat."

Chase felt himself flush at the formality. "You can call me Robert," he said, settling down into an unoccupied wooden chair with a cushion and straight back.

The woman who'd handed Foreman the photograph held out her hand. "I'm Linda and this is my sister Anaya."

"They're Megan's kids," Mr. Foreman explained.

"We're not _kids_, Uncle," Anaya said playfully, wiping her eyes with a shirt sleeve, "I'm almost thirty."

"Almost, my ass," Foreman murmured as he leafed through the box of pictures.

"Hey!" Anaya protested.

"She's lying," said Foreman, "We're like six months apart."

Chase shrugged a shoulder and tried to smile. It had been a while since he'd seen this and the cliché almost surprised him: grieving family cracking jokes about nothing. It was never like that at the hospital, as if something in the medicinal environment gave a free pass to open mourning.

"That's Doobie, our baby brother," Anaya said, changing the subject. "Oh, it's not his real name but we've called him that since he was a baby."

"How do you do," Doobie said. His handshake was limp. Chase wanted to ask what his real name was, but if it was worse than "Doobie," he wasn't sure that information would be volunteered.

"I need a smoke," Linda said. She swiped a tissue across her dewy forehead and reached for her purse. "I'll be right back."

"It'll be the death of you," Megan called as they crossed paths in the foyer. Linda waved her hand dismissively and disappeared.

Two steaming hot coffees in pink rimmed mugs were plunked in front of Chase and Foreman.

"So Robert, tell me," Auntie Meg blew into her own cup of coffee. "Where are you from? England?"

"Australia." The ceramic mug was almost too hot touch.

"Well you're a long ways from home then. You got family back from here?"

"Auntie, don't pry," Foreman said.

"I'm just asking a simple question."

"It's okay," Chase burned his tongue against the coffee which was surprisingly strong. "My stepmother's still living in Oz."

"And your parents?"

Chase flexed his fingers inside his pocket. "I'm afraid it's just me."

The clock was suddenly ticking very loudly.

"So, Eric," Mr. Foreman said suddenly, "I'm going to pay your brother a visit later this week. Have you spoken to him?"

"Uh, not yet," Foreman said, more to his lap than to his father.

"I'm sure he'd love to hear from you. This is especially hard for him."

Foreman squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't want to talk about this now."

"Would it be so hard just to call, or—"

"Dad!"

Chase started as Foreman leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over his untouched cup of coffee. Foreman's father pressed his lips into a thin line as his son stalked past towards the kitchen. Anaya buried her hands noisily in the box of photographs.

"What about this one? This is a nice one, isn't it?" she said, holding out a picture to Chase.

"It's nice," Chase agreed without looking.

- - -

The Foremans' house was two stories, with a narrow stairway winding up from the foyer. Chase had originally thought it was a closet, but now the door was ajar and he could just make out the carpeted steps leading to the second floor.

"Excuse me," Auntie Meg said, bustling past, "I need to check on the roast."

"Is uh…Eric upstairs?" asked Chase.

"Oh heaven knows. I can't believe he's still fighting with his father, at a time like this."

"He seemed upset."

"Yes, well. Those two can't agree on anything, not even now. Hm…" She squinted at whatever was in the oven. "Needs a little more time. If you do find Eric, tell him dinner's almost ready."

"All right," Chase agreed.

As Megan fussed over the oven, he slipped into the stairwell and padded upstairs as quietly as he could. The upstairs hallway was wallpapered with blue stripes and several framed photos hung along the walls. He stopped to look at one: a family portrait of a young couple with two boys standing at their sides. The younger one who must have been Foreman was surprising pudgy with a wide smile. His brother looked sullen, leaning into the embrace of his mother's arm but (at maybe 11 or 12?) too cool to acknowledge it.

"Foreman? You up here?" Chase called.

At first, no response, but then, "Yeah, in here." Chase pushed open the nearest door.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

"You can turn on the light if you want."

"Uh…it's okay. I was just…" Chase took a few steps into the room, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I can only take so much of him at once, y'know?"

Chase shrugged. His eyes were adjusting to the dim light provided by a streetlamp outside and he could see the outline of Foreman sitting on a twin bed. Chase's knee bumped an identical bed on the other side of the room and he sat down tentatively, across from Foreman.

"What's the story with your brother?" he asked

"If I tell you, you're not gonna try and puzzle me out?" Foreman shook his head. "He's in prison for dealing."

"Drugs?"

Even in the relative dark, Chase could tell he was getting Foreman's _Are you an idiot? _face.

"Yes. He got me into all kinds of shit too before they caught him. I was a minor though; spent a few years in juvie and they let me go.

My dad's got this whole Christian forgiveness thing going on. Like, 'Eric, we gave you a second chance and look at you!'" Foreman paused to shake his head. "Marcus isn't like me."

"I'm…sorry," said Chase.

"Mom couldn't even remember he was in jail half the time. We even mentioned it, she'd get really upset."

"Your mother had…"

"Alzheimer's. Yeah. I tell you how she died?"

"She froze to death. Outside the house."

Foreman was silent for a second. "Did I tell you it happened here? Because I don't think…"

"Here." Chase already had the scrap of folded paper out of his pocket. He held it out to Foreman.

"What's this?"

"I thought you might want to see it."

Foreman turned on a lamp on the bedside table and unfolded the piece of newspaper Chase had handed him. Chase almost felt like he should have been looking away but Foreman's eyes were widening at the headline and Chase felt like he had to watch. All train wreck analogies aside…

"I didn't see this one." Foreman's voice sounded hoarse. "They…they didn't even print her name. God_damn." _He fell back against the bed, lifting a hand to cover his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Chase said again, because what else was there to say? _At least she didn't suffer?_ Foreman already knew that; he was a doctor too. Besides, it was little comfort. Chase knew that all too well.

"Linda and Anaya…" Foreman screwed up his face. "They keep giving me that whole 'I know how you feel' thing—because, you know, their father had a stroke last year. But it's not the same…it's…like I'd already lost her. I lost her a hundred times before she actually…"

Chase realized Foreman wasn't going to finish the thought. "Do you want to be alone?"

"It doesn't…do whatever the hell you want."

Chase's gaze settled on the blank, colorless wall behind Foreman. The room was painfully indistinct, plain bedcovers, nothing on the walls—it must have had a history, but only Foreman would recognize that.

"I'll get the light," Chase said, standing up.

In the second between reaching for the lamp flipping the switch, Foreman asked, "Were you going to say it?"

"Say what? Oh. No I wasn't."

"Hm. Well, you're probably someone who could."

Chase half-smiled. "No, you're right. It's not the same."

But it was, in a way.

_I'd already lost her._

Yes.

_I lost her a hundred times._

Life is funny that way, Chase decided, and closed the door behind him.

- - -

The snow stopped falling and started melting, mixed with thawing earth by the footprints of pedestrians and the tracks of tires until what was once pristine white became mud-colored and slushy.

They salted the roads and Chase took his car to work.

House had a patient, but she was diagnosed over breakfast (bagels) and treated by lunch. Hardly a challenge, Chase thought, but it broke up the monotony of another day of clinic duty and paperwork. And the fact that Cuddy had made the referral was certainly a good indication she'd let House out on parole.

Cameron's sister had the baby, a few weeks premature, but otherwise "perfect"—

according to Cameron at least, who'd been taken by surprise when asked to be the kid's Godmother. Chase and Foreman exchanged glances at this—she was _surprised?_ But neither had any sisters so they chalked it up to Another Strange Thing About Women, and gave their congratulations.

The weather was far from nice—still near freezing with wind chill—but the sky was clear, and the sun was out, so House took off early and Foreman and Chase went out onto the balcony to watch a couple trying to jump start their car.

"You feeling any better?" Chase asked, when the silence started to bother him.

"I'm fine." Foreman sighed. "Dad finally guilted me into visiting my brother. I'm going after work."

Chase shrugged. "There are worse ways to spend your time."

"Yeah, I know."

"How's your father anyway?"

"He's fine. Handling it well. He handles everything well." Foreman paused. "Still holding out hope that 'something good will come of this.""

Chase looked at him.

"That I'll find religion," Foreman explained. He shook his head. "I don't know why he's still trying."

Chase squinted out at the parking lot, the sun reflected in numerous silver bumpers.

"Maybe," he said carefully, "Maybe you should listen to him…your father. I think he's trying to do a good thing."

Foreman chuckled. "That's exactly what I didn't want to hear."

"I know," Chase said quickly, "And you won't hear it again—not from me anyway. Sorry."

"No. Chase, I mean, just—" Foreman pressed his lips together. "I'm not ready to hear it yet."

Chase tucked his chin down into his collar as a sharp gust of wind swept over the balcony. "Okay."

Foreman leaned against the railing and narrowed his eyes at Chase. "You cold?"

"Yeah, I'm going back inside."

"You've been walking from the bus stop everyday in worse weather than this, and you're cold now?"

"It's still cold!"

"It's not cold; it's crisp." Foreman laughed.

"I'm still going inside."

"Wait, Chase—are you doing anything tomorrow night?"

Chase paused with his hand on the door. "I don't have anything planned."

"A couple of friends I were going to hit this new bar down the street to hang out, play pool. You want to come?"

A drop of water hit Chase's cheek and he looked up to see the icicles on the hospital roof were melting.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

- - -

a/n: SO THAT'S IT. For a three-parter, it wasn't really that long, but I kind of like the way it split up. I'd love to have feedback on this one...I think it's replacing Portions For Foxes as my favorite fic I've written. Anyway, it's pretty epic for gen for me. And as SimmySim (also my wonderful beta) said, Foreman/Chase friendship fics are so scarce that this is kind of epic in its own right.

Many many thanks to all those to commented on previous parts and encouraged me :D ILU ALL, thank you, thank you.


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